


The Rocky Road to Hell

by Pagalini



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, still-a-hunter-still-an-angel-au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:03:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pagalini/pseuds/Pagalini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When her husband burns alive on the ceiling of her son’s nursery, Mary Winchester doesn’t leave everything behind and set out on a revenge quest. She doesn’t turn her boys into child soldiers. She doesn’t get Dean drunk for the first time at thirteen, and she most certainly doesn’t beat him. What she does do, however, is open an ice cream parlor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Rocky Road to Hell is paved both with good intentions and Target’s own-brand mini marshmallows. It’s hand-painted, family-run, and just quaint enough to make a profit from all the hyphens. The tables are a bit wonky. The main doorway has a ladder of pencil marks on both sides of it, one higher than the other. The menu is written in looping cursive in bright pink chalk on a board that hangs just-slightly askew on the wall up behind the counter. The uniform is just as bright, complete with ruffles on the edges of the bubblegum-pink apron, and Dean has been wearing it after school since he was ten years old.

He’s twenty-five now, and the only thing that’s changed is that he wears it full-time instead of just in the afternoons.

“Stop eating the sprinkles,” says his mom, coming out from the backroom.

“ _Mom._ ”

“I can tell when you’re lying,” she says. “Scoot.”

He shifts his ass over a bit so she can dump a box on the countertop where he’s been sitting. He reads the label upside-down. “I didn’t know we were out of ball bearings.”

“We’re not,” says Mary, cutting open the tape on the box with a craft knife that’s covered in stickers of smiling cats. “Just a hunch.”

“Rufus or Bobby?”

“Ellen. Bobby and Rufus like the honeycomb.”

“Is Jo coming with her?”

Mary side-eyes him. “Dean Winchester, if you even _think_ about looking at that girl funny I will do nothing to help you when Ellen finds out and comes after you with a machete.”

“Pen-knife,” says Dean. “She’d want to make it last.”

The bell jingles, and Mary pinches his leg to make him get off the counter and go say hi.

* * *

 _Dean Winchester is the Righteous Man,_ says the hum and glory of the heavenly Host. _He will break the First Seal, and start the Apocalypse._

Castiel remembers the day of Dean Winchester’s birth – the clamour and glow of a thousand wings lit up with joy. He’d been squashed a bit, near the back, Balthazar lifting him up for a closer look. He’d only gotten a glimpse – a flash of a tiny squirming _thing_ , and when Balthazar asked him about the glory of the Righteous Man he lied and said the Man was beautiful and pure.

He wasn’t. He was a wriggling pink comma of flesh, his mind an empty crackle of life. Castiel had seen no glory. He had seen a human child.

But he kept watch over the Man anyway. The Host knew the sequence of events. Mother murdered, raised a soldier, broke righteous.

_Castiel. The time has come. You must retrieve the Righteous Man from Hell._

Millennia spent waiting for this task. Castiel is ready.

* * *

The guy standing in the doorway looks lost. He’s wearing a suit, a tie in a nice colour but knotted all wrong, and a coat that’s near-drowning him and is way too hot for the Kansas summer heat.

But this isn’t an ordinary ice cream parlour, and Dean has seen weirder. “Hey,” he says. “Welcome to The Rocky Road to Hell! Can I make any recommendations for you?”

“You are Dean,” says the man. He looks a bit bewildered. His says the name without looking at Dean's name badge. 

“Yeah,” says Dean. This isn't the weirdest thing to have ever happened to him when wearing the apron, and ain't that just the retail life, but there's something about this guy's contained intensity that has Dean turning to pay him all of his attention. The guy could just be high, but he sees his mom go quiet and still behind the counter anyway. Better safe than sorry, despite the fact that there’s salt running under the floor and devil’s traps drawn under the cupcake-patterned welcome mat.

“Dean Winchester,” says the man.

“Do you need a ride to the hospital?” Dean asks. His mom has bent a little, has her arm stuck beneath the counter. To a customer she looks like she's fumbling for extra napkins or something, but Dean knows that there are guns stashed behind the spare plastic spoons.

The parlour’s empty except for the three of them, and the guy’s eyes are looking crazier by the second. Dean meets his mom's eyes, and she nods. 

"Look," says Dean, making a show of wiping his hands on his apron and hooking the surface spray onto one of the over-the-neck straps. "Are you on a bad trip or something?"

“What?” asks the man, steadily watching Dean as he comes towards him. His eyes narrow, and Dean stops moving. “I have not _fallen_.”

He says it with an odd vehemence. Dean isn't looking at his mom, but he hears a faint click and knows that she's ready. 

"We don't want any trouble," says Dean. He studies the guy, who has walked over salt lines and traps and other tricks to trap a hundred different kinds of nasty, and still something is screaming at him, saying  _not human_. From the second click that comes from behind the counter, his mom agrees. 

Dean slides his right hand into the big pocket of his apron, and pulls out a bottle of water. Clear, still. Holy too, though there's no way to tell just by looking at it. "You thirsty?" he asks the man, holding out the bottle. 

“No,” says the man. He lapses into silence and stares straight at Dean’s apron, his mouth twisted into a displeased crease.

“You got a problem with femininity?” Dean asks. He wouldn’t be the first, and Dean’s well schooled in how to treat assholes that think being like a woman is the worst thing a man can be. His mom taught him well.

“No," say the man, and he gives Dean another scrunchy-eyed look of utter incomprehension. 

“Look," says Dean. "Can we help you or not?"

The man stands in silence for perhaps ten seconds, and then he looks at the water bottle in Dean's hand, and at the flowery welcome mat with its devil's trap beneath, and at the front window where a little of the salt line shows through via a gap in the floorboards. He looks at Dean's mom last, and his gaze is one of respect and wariness. 

“No. It is all right. I believe I have made an error.”

The guy swings around and heads back outside. Dean moves to follow him but by the time he gets his head out the door the guy is gone.

* * *

Dean Winchester is not in Hell. When Castiel pins a demon to the heat-cracked dirt and demands his location, the demon doesn’t even know who Dean is. Frustrated, Castiel burns it; his wings a searing cold that smother the creature’s flames and smoke in an instant. All around him his garrison are drifting amid the chains of the Rack, eagle hunting faces gone to ram’s heads or lion heads in the confusion.

 _Where is the Righteous Man_ , goes up the cry. _The Man is lost._

 _No_ , says Castiel, but he is too quiet, too small, and his Garrison are rising up – up through the gates they bent and broke to gain entry, up towards the luminous dust and starlight of the heavenly plane. _The Man must be on Earth_.

But angels are narrow-minded creatures, and they do not listen. Castiel is caught up in the comet’s tail of light that the angels leave in their wake, and rides it up through the gates. He doesn’t wait to watch their sealing, though it is a sight that will likely never coincide with his orders ever again. He is a continent away, cutting a line of fire through the between-space, following the memory of Dean Winchester’s soul as he saw it some twenty-six years ago. Ten kilometers above the tender shell of the Earth's crust, Castiel unwinds the coil of his grace and hurls it out in all directions, casting for the echo of Dean’s birth.

He finds the place. The hospital’s walls are warm when Castiel wings out of the between-space and alights on the roof, and they whisper to him when he slides down to a ward full of the vague light of infants and tired mothers. He can feel the thread of Dean’s time, goes to the point where it starts.

Dean Winchester is indeed on Earth. If Castiel is correct, he is at this moment less than ten miles from his birthplace. He knows that he should report to his superiors, but if he is incorrect in this report he will face severe punishment and Castiel is not a good enough angel to ignore that threat.

Their first meeting is not the glorious Raising that the Host ordained. It is awkward and Castiel leaves after only a few minutes, departing the visible wavelength to perch, invisible, inside the building he had just fled. It is very – pink. It is pink and flowery and charming, and it is not at all the destiny Castiel has been training to fulfill since the time of his creation. He feels strangely misshapen inside his vessel, and this destiny is hostile to him for all its pinkness. It is hostile because it is not what he has trained for, and he does not know what to do.

His orders were to Raise the Righteous Man from the bowels of Hell. Not to hide, afraid, inside a human food and beverage establishment. Jimmy Novak is angry with him, with this false purpose that he left his family for, and Castiel does not know what to do.

* * *

Dean’s taking out the trash a week later when he sees him again – the crazy eyed maybe-monster with the coat. He’s not wearing it now, and his eyes aren’t quite so crazy as before, which gives Dean the courage to tentatively approach him. He holds the trash bag in front of him as if it could do a damn thing if this guy really does turn out to be one of those things that go bump in the dark. “Hey, you feeling better?” 

“I do not know,” says the man. “I am trying something new.”

“That’s great,” says Dean. He swings the trash bag a little when the guy doesn't say anything more, just stares. Dean stares back at him and recognises the guy's outfit at being exactly the same as last time. “Hey, uh. You got clothes? You got a place to stay?" 

“I have more clothes,” the man says.

“There’s a cheap motel over that way,” says Dean, putting down one of the black bags and pointing. The guy's eyes doesn't follow his finger. It's like being an ant under a magnifying glass. “Sarah’ll let you stay free for a couple nights if you explain your situation.”

“My…situation?”

“Yeah, I mean. I know this is awful nosy, but – drugs, right? You got real messed up? It’s okay, I’m not gonna judge,” says Dean, when the man goes to speak. “My kid brother got into the wrong crowd a couple years back, if you know what I mean. You’re trying, right? That’s the important thing.”

“Yes,” says the man. He sounds a bit dazed. Maybe he really is a drug addict and not a monster. Then again, he could be both. Monsterhood drives people to desperate escapism, especially when unwillingly acquired.

“You can come in to get fed and watered any time you want ‘til you’re back on your feet,” says Dean. “We got a special policy for people who need the help.”

“I – yes. That is very kind.”

“It’s no problem, really. I do require at least a little payment, though.”

“I don’t have any money.”

Dean laughs, loud and long. “Christ, you’re a right case. What’s your name, dumbass? I can’t just keep thinking of you as rumply-suit-dude.”

“I am not wearing a suit.”

“That makes knowing your name even more important,” says Dean.

“I am Castiel,” says the man, and then visibly cuts himself off as if he’d been about to say something else.

“Well, _Castiel_ ,” says Dean. “How do you feel about ice cream? I get the feeling you’re going to be eating an awful lot of it.”

* * *

Castiel stays hidden inside the building for the rest of the day, watching Dean and Mary work. The parlour is quiet. They have a steady trickle of customers that swells at lunchtime, and Mary knows them all by name. The handles of the cupboards under the till have the blurred remnant of an etching, rubbed flat by years of use. Castiel can feel the echo of Mary and Dean’s presence in every mote of dust, in every floor tile and uneven splotch of paint. This is a home, and for the first time Castiel knows what it is to envy.

He unspools his grace, lets it fan out to fill every corner of the building. He knows the mind of every human that comes inside that day, and with every newcomer he understands a little more of why Dean and his mother has been so perturbed by him. Most humans have more than one set of outer garments, and Dean also appears to believe that Castiel had been under the influence of some kind of narcotic. Such substances have no effect on angels, but Dean would not know that. Castiel does not understand what he did to create this impression, but he would not like it to continue. He gathers from the old woman who comes in for a single-scoop of vanilla on a chocolate waffle cone that substance abusers are not much favoured by current human society, or at least not in this part of the world.

“That guy from earlier,” says Mary, at around two in the afternoon. “He trouble?”

“No, he’s just – lost, I think,” says Dean. 

“What club did he join?” asks Mary.

"Not sure," says Dean, and Mary's eyebrows rocket upwards. "You saw him," he protests. "He walked straight in, no problemo. Guy could just be a regular old meatbag who need some help."

Mary shakes her head. "Honey, I don't know what he is, but he sure as Hell ain't a regular old anything."

Dean leans on the counter, props himself up by the elbows. "So we keep an eye on him?"

She nods. "Innocent til proven guilty, Deany. You know how it goes."

 

The Dean that Castiel has been trained to expect would fight the pet name, but the fact that this Dean doesn’t pales against the much bigger deviations present all around them. The Dean Castiel expected should be travelling with his brother, homeless, seeking sex and inebriation for entertainment. So far this Dean hasn’t even considered the latter two and clearly has a comfortable and much-loved home. This Dean hasn’t even thought about _Sam_.

“Yeah,” says Dean, and now is when he finally thinks about Sam. “Yeah, I know.”

Castiel cannot describe what happens when he looks into Dean’s mind and sees Sam, dirty and greasy-haired, lying thin and wrecked in a hospital bed, but he finds himself on an empty shoreline one-tenth of a human second later, and the trees to his back are stripped bare and torn by his grace.

Not everything about this perfect alternate reality - and that is what this must be, Castiel must have flown into some other-world, as there is no way this dire aberration to the ordained chain of events could possibly be happening for real - is so perfect, it seems.

Castiel closes the vessel's eyes and cleanses his turbulent thoughts, and when all is at peace once more he steps through reality and returns himself to Kansas. Dean thought he needed more clothes, so he will acquire more clothes. However, having spent the last two millennium in heaven, Castiel is not acquainted with whatever form of currency rules Dean's region of the Earth. He feels a mild discomfort at the thought of stealing clothing, but knows enough from Mary and Dean’s customers to feel significantly less discomfort about taking a moment to lift the money he needs from the offshore accounts of a man called Mitt Romney.

The tags on the inside of most of the clothes in Dean’s closet said Old Navy, so that is where Castiel goes. His fellow customers are a mixed crowd, half of whom are uncomfortable with the dirty concrete floor and exposed ceiling, the other half to whom these things are so familiar as to be a mere fact of life.  Castiel buys some black t-shirts in the same size as a man who appears to possess the same body type as the vessel, and some jeans. He also buys a couple of plaid shirts, because Dean seems to like those. He certainly has enough of them.

Changing clothes and immediately returning to the ice cream parlour could be construed as strange, so Castiel takes his purchases with him to a quiet street a few miles outside of the town and waits there until morning. Time is of little concern to him in human terms. He has waited millennia for this mission, warped as it is. A few hours is of no concern to him.

The sunrise is different from Earth. In heaven Castiel views it as it truly is, the atoms and connections and the vast space between. Here by the Kansas roadside Castiel sees the bleed of colour, the lavender that blooms to buttercup yellow before brightening to brilliant blue. The sun is a hot glow, a light that would hurt the vessel’s eyes without Castiel’s protection. It is the power source of almost all life on this humble rock with the exception of the strange creatures huddling around the volcanic oases of the deep oceans, and from this human vantage point Castiel understands the ancient peoples who died to built monuments to it.

He changes his clothes the human way up until a man slows his car and shouts at him. Castiel finishes changing in a subtle shift of planes and wipes the man’s memory before he leaves for the parlour. He leaves the rest of his clothes in a sealed natural cavern a kilometer below the surface, where they will be safe. He knows that Dean would call that ‘overkill’, but Castiel does not know enough of Earth yet to trust leaving his possessions in the open.

Dean is again carrying waste to a disposal unit outside the parlour when Castiel arrives in a doorway around the corner. Castiel walks by him, unsure how to initiate interaction, but Dean does it for him. Dean is pleased by Castiel’s new clothes, and – Castiel feels some aspect of that.

Angels are not supposed to feel.

Dean Winchester is supposed to be in Hell.

Only one of these things makes Castiel _feel_ uncomfortable.

* * *

“Did you steal the clothes?”

“No,” says Castiel, truthfully. The clothing may have been purchased with liberated currency, but it was still purchased.

They have moved inside the parlour, Dean beckoning and Castiel drawn hopelessly in his wake. There’s a scruffy-looking old man camped out in one corner with a huge half-melted sundae at his elbow, but otherwise it’s empty. Castiel can feel the hum of Mary's presence behind the shop, in the part of the building restricted for family. She’s reading, and the placid melody of her mind in that action soothes Castiel a little when Dean snorts at him and shakes his head.

“You can be honest,” says Dean. “I mean, you did say you haven’t got any cash, so there’s no other way you could have got them.”

“I paid,” says Castiel.

Dean’s eyes narrow. “Who’d you steal the money from? You don’t look like the type to hustle.”

“No,” says Castiel. “Though I was not aware such deeds attracted a ‘type.’”

“Who’d you steal from? It’s a small town. Humour me.”

“A man called Mitt Romney,” says Castiel.

Dean stares at him for a long moment and then laughs, loud and belly-deep. “Are you for real? Fuck, man. You’re exactly the type to hustle with a poker face like that.”

“He is not a nice person,” Castiel informs him, with absolute solemnity.

“No, I got that. He’s a regular pile of horse shit. Okay, I get it. I’ll stop asking. Just keep your nose clean while you’re coming here, yeah? We do honest work here.”

The Dean that Castiel had been told of was a hustler and a cheat. This Dean knows how to hustle but has only done so on a few occasions and takes little pleasure in it.  

“I do not know how to get honest work,” says Castiel. Dean has been helpful so far. Castiel can only hope that his hospitality extends still further.

Dean eyes him. “You got ID?”

“No,” says Castiel.

“We can help you out,” says Dean. “You should come up with a better alias than ‘Castiel’, though, if you want to keep your head down.”

“It isn’t an alias,” says Castiel.

Dean looks visibly taken aback. “Oh, uh. Wow. Guess your parents kinda screwed you over there, huh.”

“I do not have parents,” says Castiel, although he knows Dean wasn’t expecting an answer. He doesn’t know why he tells Dean this, just that he wants to. It isn’t strictly true, of course, because he does have a Father - just not in the human sense, and certainly no mother.

“Oh, uh. Sorry about that.”

“It is not your fault,” says Castiel. Then, because Dean is looking increasingly uncomfortable, he points at the jar of sprinkles on the counter. “They look nice.”

“Oh? Yeah. They taste better than they look.”

“I would like some of those, if your offer of sustenance is still open.”

Castiel does not require nutrition, but Dean had offered and Castiel sees no other way to change the topic to something less likely to disturb Dean.

“Just – sprinkles?” Dean raised an eyebrow at him. “Free reign in an ice cream parlour, and you just want sprinkles?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  “A portion,” says Castiel, after a moment’s careful thought.

  “Where’d you get this whackjob,” calls the man sitting in the corner. “I know you and your mama love to pick up strays, Deany, but this one needs more help than you can provide."

 _Whackjob_ , Castiel surmises, is a derogatory and ableist term. Castiel does not appreciate its use.

The old man is reading something on his communicative device, and by redirecting his true eyes Castiel can read the screen without moving. “You are translating incorrectly,” he tells him, tone placid. “If you attempt to use that enchantment in the way you are trying to it will result in your quick and painful death.”

Dean goes very still.

The man’s hand has moved very unsubtly to his hip, where Castiel can detect a short blade. “How’re you reading that from over there?”

Ah. It appears he has made a mistake in conduct. “I have very good eyesight,” he says.

“You don’t say.” The man stands up and starts coming towards them.

Castiel has no wish to reveal himself like this, especially when his purpose is so confused. He remains seated. “I have very good eyesight,” he repeats.

The front bell tinkles and they all turn to see the newcomer. To Dean and the angry old man with the knife – Eddie Prentis, fifty-seven years of age, driven to hunting after the murder of his classmates on a camping trip as a teenager, full of the kind of hate and suspicion and hurt that Castiel had expected to see in _Dean_  – it is a tall white man, broad, with a large oval face and a hooked nose.

To Castiel the newcomer is a pillar of brilliant light, encircled by the steady rotation of the wheels that mark the angel’s rank. The many eyes that cover the angel’s wings are familiar to Castiel, and he shrinks down a little inside his vessel.

 _Castiel_ , says Zachariah. _What have you_ done?

 _I have done nothing_ , says Castiel. The pressure of Zachariah’s gaze is heating the skin of Castiel’s vessel, prickling at his wings.

“There you are,” says Zachariah’s human mouth. “I was very worried about you, Castiel. We all were.”

It is a lie, and that is – unsettling.

 _I went to the Pit, and Dean Winchester was not there_ , says Castiel. _I found him here, living in the light. He is not as Prophesized_.

 _I can see that_.

“Come with me,” says Zachariah, so the humans can hear. “We’d best get you home.”

“Home?” _I have not yet fulfilled my orders._

“Yes. Your sister was very worried.” _Your orders are now irrelevant_. _You will be issued with new ones once He has told us how to react to this situation. This must be part of the Plan, as are all things_.

“Yes,” says Castiel. “My sister.” _Who is to be stationed with me?_

_Anael. Be quiet, Castiel. You have said and done enough here as it is. We do not want to increase their suspicions._

“I’m sorry,” says Dean, his body language gone subtly bolder, hip cocking. “Who are you and how do you know him?”

Castiel does not speak, because he has been ordered not to.

“I’m his brother,” says Zachariah. “He gets away from us, sometimes. He had an accident at work a few years ago and it’s changed him up a bit. Sorry if he’s bothered you, Dean. We’ll pay for any damages.”

Dean does not like being called by name by this man. He is concerned that Zachariah is either abusing Castiel and that Castiel ran away, or that Zachariah is a monster that converted Castiel against his will, but Castiel cannot speak to assuage either concern. He places his hands on his knees and stares at the veins on the backs of the vessel's hands.

“Keep him on a leash,” suggests the man who had been approaching Castiel before Zachariah’s entrance. "He'll get killed, pulling stunts like that around these parts."

There is a millisecond where Castiel quakes under the blooming heat of Zachariah’s grace, but it subsides just as suddenly as started. Zachariah quirks a strange smile at the man and exits the shop, obviously expecting Castiel to follow. He stands to do so, but is stopped when Dean puts a hand on his elbow.

Dean is – still concerned.

“I am fine,” says Castiel. When Zachariah takes no notice in him betraying his order, he adds, “He is who he says.”

“You sure? He ain’t messing you around?”

“He is my brother,” says Castiel, startled.

Dean nods and lets him leave, but his thoughts say _exactly._

* * *

Once out of sight of the ice cream parlour, Zachariah folds away his vessel’s form and seizes Castiel by the horns of his ram face, dragging them both sideways to the space between atoms. Anael is waiting for them.

 _Release him, Zachariah_.

He complies and Castiel straightens, trying not to show his discomfort. _Sister_ , he greets.

 _Brother_ , she replies. _Zachariah tells me that you have disobeyed._

 _I was ordered to find and retrieve Dean Winchester. The Man was not in Hell, and I planned to report to you after discovering him in this place, but I preferred to stay a short time and investigate. It could very well have been a trap for the Host_.

Castiel is not typically one to talk so brazenly to his superiors, and Zachariah’s surprise registers in the flip of his lion face to his eagle one. Castiel refuses to shy away under Zachariah’s war stare, and remains resolute, respectful ram locked in place.

Anael roars at Zachariah with the snarling jaws of her lion, and he flinches away from her, bowing his wings and closing the eyes on them. _He has not disobeyed_ , she says, and her Voice is a rattle that spikes up through the atmosphere and out into the cosmos.

 _He did not retrieve Dean Winchester_ , says Zachariah.

 _He did not_ disobey _,_ says Anael. _You described him as a_ traitor _._

Castiel can’t help the flip to eagle, or the way his wings crackle and spark when he turns to face Zachariah. _I am no traitor_.

 _Be quiet,_ says Anael. _You are still our subordinate. I have new Orders for you, Castiel._

He returns to his ram face and closes his eyes, awaiting Revelation.

 _The Righteous Man will break the first seal and bring the Apocalypse_ , says Anael.  _It is foretold, and so it shall be. You, Castiel are to discover the point where this reality deviates from the Word, and report to us. This_ _task is all you should concern yourself with. Do you understand?_

 _I do_ , says Castiel, and they leave him in a great rush of wind until he is kneeling in darkness, alone. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The problem with the orders that Castiel has been given is that he already knows the point at which this reality deviates from the Word. The Dean Winchester that Castiel has been trained to retrieve was raised a soldier by a father driven by grief.

But in this world, Mary Winchester did not burn on the ceiling of Sam Winchester’s nursery. John Winchester did. Castiel knows this the same way he knows that Dean loves his work at the parlour, that he has a habit of eating the sprinkles straight out of the jar even though Mary raps him on the knuckles when she catches him at it. The absence of John Winchester is a deep wound, but in the ordained world that deep wound should be a gangrenous fissure.

Mary Winchester’s absence was far more damaging to John than her husband’s death has been to her.

“You’re back,” says Dean, when Castiel enters the parlour the next morning. It’s only five minutes after opening time, and Dean is still puttering around adjusting chairs and napkins. He folds them into flowers, not even watching his fingers as he works.

“Yes,” says Castiel. “There was a change of plan.”

“Plan?”

“I believed I was to return home, but I am to be staying here instead.”

“Oh, that’s. Awesome. Right? I guess? Your bro looked a bit – intense.”

“He means well,” says Castiel.

“And by that you mean he’s a cranky asswipe,” says Dean, rolling his eyes. “He ain’t here to listen to you, buddy. You can talk all you want.”

“He means well,” Castiel repeats, uncertainly.

“Suit yourself.” Dean holds his latest napkin flower out to Castiel, and when Castiel doesn’t move to take it he shakes it at him. “Hey, chuckles. You gonna eat, or you gonna make yourself useful?”

“I will help,” says Castiel. He takes the flower very carefully in one hand, and lifts the pattern for its construction from Dean’s memories. The box of napkins is open on the counter, and he goes over to it to take a wad.

When he begins folding, he hears Dean make a surprised sound. “You can make those things?”

“I learned it from someone I know,” Castiel answers, truthfully. “Where did you learn?”

He already knows the answer, and this kind of interaction is not conducive towards his orders. His orders, however, make very little sense in the current scheme of things, so Castiel is – unbound.

“My mom,” says Dean. “She likes all the little bits and pieces. She says it’s what makes the business pop.”

“Mary Winchester is a very wise woman,” says Castiel, because from what little he’s seen of this world that is most certainly the case. The Dean Winchester that stands before Castiel today is whole and healthy and mostly happy, and the same could not have been said of the Dean Winchester raised by his father.

Dean pauses. Castiel senses discomfort from him, but it’s gone almost instantly. “Yeah, she is.”

 _He can’t be a demon_ , _with the salt line and the traps. Psychic? It would explain the whole deal with the brother and with knowing our surname without asking._

“I am a psychic,” says Castiel, interrupting Dean's train of thought. It isn't untrue, after all, and is easier than explaining the absolute truth. 

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” says Dean, dropping the flower he’s folding. “Get the fuck out of my brain, asshole.”

“I am not in your brain,” says Castiel. He keeps folding flowers, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“You know exactly what I mean, chuckles. Get the fuck out, okay? I’m not into all that crap.”

Castiel should ignore him. It would make interacting with Dean much easier. However, he does not want—

He does not want.

“I am out,” he says. “I will endeavour to remain so.”

“Awesome,” says Dean. “Keep your nose clean, okay? Like I told you.”

Castiel is no longer aware of Dean’s thoughts, but in that moment he is certain that Dean is thinking of Sam.

* * *

“Deany tells me you’re a psychic,” says Mary, approaching Castiel some time later when Dean is doing a stock take in the backroom. “You square?”

“I do not know what that means,” says Castiel.

“Did you grow up under a rock or something, kid?”

Castiel remains silent. Mary is staring at the back of his head, but he keeps facing away from her. He’s progressed from folding flowers to sweeping the floor, but the movement is no less peaceful.

“I get the feeling you’ve not had a great time of it,” says Mary, approaching him. “That brother of yours, the way you - well. So I’m gonna accept that you’re a bit out of touch. I know that psychics don’t get a great deal. And if you’re half the psychic I think you are, you know who I am, and you know what this place is really about. Do you need our help? Is that why you came? To get help to face that man who claims to be your brother?"

"I need," and here Castiel pauses, truly uncertain. "I have a task that I must complete."

"What task?"

Here Castiel pauses again. "It is a task appointed to me by my Father," he says, with great care. 

Mary comes around to stand beside him. She's slight and and her features are crinkled at the edges but the hand she lays on his forearm is calloused and strong. "I understand if you feel that you can't tell us what's really going on, but we will help you in any way that we can," she says. Her grip on his arm tightens. "But if this is a ruse and you hurt me or mine, I will turn you inside out and wreck your fucking shit."

"I intend you no harm," says Castiel, and Mary must see something in the way that he says it that calms her, because her grip eases and her expression softens. "Though I am afraid that I may have inadvertently caused Dean Winchester to experience - distress."

That grip is back, and though Mary is directing a pleasant smile at him Castiel knows in this instant that she would kill him if he ever truly hurt Dean, whether she knew him to be an angel or not. 

“Dean asked me to ‘get the fuck out’ of his mind when I told him of what I am,” says Castiel. “I have not looked into your mind, as I assumed that it would also apply to you, but he has avoided me since then.”

“Dean is...complicated,” says Mary. "Let's just say he has a bad history with psychics."

Castiel tilts his head. "Is this to do with his brother?"

Mary snatches her hand away from his arm. In a second she has aged thirty, forty years, her eyes hollow, her mouth a slack silhouette of misery. Then she is in control again and the expression is gone. Castiel watches all of this and catalogues it. Mary Winchester has far more emotional control and intelligence than her late husband. 

"Don't," she says, and her voice trembles. She swallows and starts again. "Don't bring up - that, if you want Dean to stop avoiding you, all right?"

"I understand," says Castiel. He studies Mary's face for a moment longer. "Should I withdraw from your surface thoughts as well?"

"That may be for the best," says Mary. She pats Castiel on the arm, more gingerly than she had before, and seems to make a decision. "The 7/11 across the street is hiring."

Unsure how to respond to the sudden change of topic, Castiel nods, turns away, and continues sweeping. There is a particularly aggravating clump of hair stuck down the side of the skirting board, near the counter. He is almost tempted to smite it from existence, but that would be counter-intuitive in that it would most likely render the entire establishment to ash.

“You should check it out,” she adds.

Ah. Castiel pauses in his sweeping. “I do not believe myself to be employee material.”

There is also the fact that he technically already has work, but. If he is to be positioned here for the foreseeable future, it could do him good to be occupied. Perhaps some minor miracles could help lift this town out of its current state of economic uncertainty. He was not ordered against it, after all.

“Some folk’d say the same about my Dean, but he’s the best worker I’ve ever had,” says Mary.

“Perhaps you are biased.”

“Where'd that spine come from?” exclaims Mary. “Good. You’ll need it if you’re gonna go into retail and get yourself on your feet.”

“I don't—”

“Yeah, yeah. Just give it a try.”

 Castiel can no longer look into Mary’s mind to see what applying for such a post would entail, and so he is lost. “What would applying require?”

“Oh, right,” says Mary. “Don’t worry about that stuff, kid. We’ll sort it out for you. You wanna go with your real surname, or d’you want an alias?”

“I do not have a surname,” says Castiel.

Mary goes very still, just like Dean had. He must have learned it from her, and that thought sparks an odd warmth. “You don’t?”

“No.” The vessel’s name is James Novak, and it is a good name. “However, if I am correct in surmising that you are asking for the purpose of creating an identity for me, I find the name Novak – pleasing.”

“Cas Novak, then,” says Mary.

Castiel finally gets that clump of hair into the pile that’s waiting to be swept up. He leans the broom up against the wall and turns to face her. “What payment would you like?” he asks. It is a fair question.  

“Don’t worry your pretty head over it,” says Mary. She waves a hand at him in an overly non-committal fashion. "We'll get you sorted out. It's what we do."

"So it is," says Castiel, after a pause. 

“Someone has to do it,” says Mary, giving him an odd look. "This business, it's all macho bullshit and mangst. Someone's gotta have a head on their shoulders, watch out for the people who get crushed between all those big nasty attitudes." She breaks eye contact and tugs on the sides of her apron. “Get outta here, kid. You’ve been in here since opening.”

“I like it here,” says Castiel. “It is a home.”

Mary’s fingers twitch on the edges of her apron. “Yeah. I try.”

It feels as though he has overstepped a boundary, so he leaves.

* * *

“Knew there was something,” says Dean, when he’s telling his mom about Castiel. “He had that kind of—”

“If you say ‘look’, so help me god I will punch you in the balls,” his mom snaps. “He’s psychic, Deany. It doesn’t stop him from being an individual.”

“He is pretty kooky, though,” says Dean.

“That’s probably due to the people around him, not the psychic deal itself,” she replies, and wow, they’re not talking about Castiel anymore.

“Mom—”

“Save it for when you’ve found your big-boy pants, Deany,” she says. “What do you want to do about this guy, then? You seemed happy enough to open our doors to him earlier on.”

“So sue me, I don’t like people messing with my head!”

“You’d better suck it up, Dean Winchester, if that’s your only reason for wanting to turn this boy away. We’re going to look after him the same we’d want to be treated ourselves.”

“I ain’t no—”

“You’re the brother of one, so act like it,” she orders. “This boy hasn’t had a great time of it, from the look of him. We’ll get him on his feet and away from those relatives, if they even are his relatives, which I doubt, and then we’ll see whether you feel the same way.”

“I don’t wanna talk to him,” says Dean, looking down at his feet. He feels approximately five years old, and the knowledge brings a hot flush across his face.

“I’ll do it, then,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Make yourself useful and do a stock take.”

This Castiel is a good boy, by Mary’s judgement. He’s distant, a bit – dazed, if anything, but Mary knows a lost soul when she sees one. She talks to him and when he offers to pay her although she knows he has nothing it breaks her a little; forces open the boarded-up part of her mind to a time when she hadn’t offered this same kindness.

She wants to apologise but doesn’t know for what, and by the time she’s even half decided what to say Castiel has left.  

* * *

It takes two days for Castiel to return to the parlour. He is uncertain of his welcome, and is relieved to find Dean alone inside. Mary is a distant hum. He can sense the shadow of her presence in the doorway.

“Mom’s out,” says Dean, not looking up from where he’s wiping down a table.

“Yes,” says Castiel. He steps inside fully, letting the door close behind him. “Is there anything I can help with?”

“Not really.”

Dean isn’t looking at him. Did Castiel really make that much of a mistake? He edges closer. “Dean. When I talked to your mother, I fear that I upset her. I – did not mean for that to happen.”

“What, mom? No, she’s fine. She’d have told me if she was super upset,” says Dean.

“I would have thought you would be – angry at me.”

“Why, cos she’s my mom? She can take care of herself. You’re just some weedy messed-up guy. She could take you, _easy_.”

“Of course,” says Castiel. He could incinerate Mary Winchester with the barest thought, if he so wished, but he will not be alerting Dean or Mary to that truth if he can help it. Revealing such abilities to a family of hunters would be - foolish, at best, even in this non-ordained world where Mary Winchester runs an ice cream parlour and is apparently known for taking in supernatural 'strays' rather than just killing. He does not understand the purpose of his orders, but the thing he is most certain of is that he is not here to negatively impact Dean Winchester’s life. He is the Righteous Man, after all, and Castiel’s original orders were to save him. Those orders, although out of the context of hell, still make sense. Castiel thinks he would rather follow those than the ones delivered to him by Anael.

“There’s some stuff for you in the back,” says Dean, crumpling up the wet cloth he’s been wiping with and throwing it to the bucket of soapy water standing on the floor in front of the counter. “Mom talked to Ash – he runs the 7/11. He wants to talk to you, see some documentation, but you’re pretty much in so long as you don’t spontaneously combust while you’re talking to him or anything." He pauses. "You can't do that, can you?”

“Not spontaneously," says Castiel, and then when Dean's eyebrows slowly raise her allows the vessel's lips to curl into a smile. "Thank you, Dean."

“Go get,” Dean tells him, jerking a thumb at the stockroom door.

Castiel goes.

* * *

The sheaf of documents is a light, fragile thing in Castiel’s hands. These papers are his entire identity, here in the human scope of things. He must not lose them.

He will take them with him to his meeting with this Ash person, and then he will stow them safe in the same caverns where he stores his clothes.

“Thank you, Dean,” he says, as he exits the stockroom. “It is very kind of you to help me like this.”

“It’s cool,” says Dean. “Look, don’t mention it, seriously.”

Castiel nods. “I won’t.”

“He didn’t set like an actual time or anything, so just go over whenever you feel ready,” says Dean. “Just – stop with that face, okay? You look like a kicked puppy.”

“I am not a kicked puppy,” says Castiel.

“I know, Christ, you were brought up under a rock. I get it. It’s one of those human things, Mr Robot. Just get your ass over there or you’ll get fired before you even start.”

“Is firing actually a possibility or is that another human thing?”

Dean snorts. “Okay, now I know you’re just messing with me. Scram!”

* * *

Ash is – not like Dean. He is bitter and sharp around the edges where Dean is worn smooth and polished. He is suspicious of Castiel, and Castiel can only suppose that means that Ash is also a hunter and Mary has told him that Castiel is psychic. There is salt running in pipes laid below the floor, just like in the ice cream parlour. The warding is not quite as effective, and Castiel presumes that is a result of this being a chain-owned building rather than a home. He pushes a little of his grace into the existing wards, bolstering them. It would not do to have his potential place of work infiltrated by enemy agents.

“You’re a weird one, that’s for sure,” says Ash, after Castiel has introduced himself. “But you're one of Mary's strays, so. You any good at cleaning?”

“Mary did not appear to have issue with my abilities when I helped at the parlour,” says Castiel.

“That’s good enough for me. I don’t think we’ve got a shirt in your size, but I’ll put an order through and it should be in by next Tuesday. You can start on Wednesday. You’ll be working every day except Monday. That cool with you?”

“It is extremely cool,” says Castiel, and receives a raised eyebrow by way of response. “Should I collect the shirt on Tuesday?”

“Nah, come get it Wednesday morning when you come in. You’re starting at nine. You can get changed in the staff restroom.”

“Thank you,” says Castiel.

“Nah, thank you,” says Ash. “Nobody else would take pay this low.”

* * *

It is a Saturday, so Castiel is – indisposed. He doesn’t know whether or not to return to the ice cream parlour, and after long moments standing just outside the 7/11 he decides to ask for some advice from a friend. Not Dean, though. He is not sure whether or not Dean counts as a friend, for all his kindness.

 _Balthazar_ , he calls, stepping up a thousand feet into the cloudless Kansas sky. He twists the air around him to hide his true form as he folds away the vessel and unfurls his wings.

 _Cassie_ , Balthazar replies, appearing behind him in a roar of displaced air. Between the combined push-and-pull of their wings, Lawrence will likely be experiencing a thunderstorm tonight.

Castiel bows his goat head. _It is good to see you, brother._

 _You too,_ says Balthazar. _You’re one of the only not-assholes. It really sucks without you around._  

 _I am sure it isn’t all that bad_.

 _You’d be wrong, Cassie_. _Michael’s rammed his fist up his ass over the last few days. The whole Host is milling around like headless chickens_.

_What?_

_The Righteous Man is not in Hell_ , says Balthazar. _Michael’s trying to say that it’s the Word, but he’s not fooling anyone_. _Why are you still down here, kiddo? If the Man’s not in Hell, he shouldn’t be any of your business._

 _I was ordered to stay and seek the source of the deviation,_ Castiel tells him. _I do not understand why. The deviation is the survival of Mary Winchester in the place of her husband._

 _That doesn’t make any sense,_ says Balthazar.

 _They are my Orders, and I will follow them_.

 _I’m sure you will,_ says Balthazar. _It’d be easier if they made any sense. I mean, if they know that it’s Mary, why did they tell you to find the deviation?_

 _I do not know,_ says Castiel. _I wasn’t told_. _The only thing I can think of is that there must be something more that the Host do not know. Our Sight can be blocked, after all_.

 _But Dean Winchester’s life is Ordained,_ says Balthazar. _There is nowhere he has gone Unseen._

 _Perhaps_ , says Castiel, thinking of what little he has seen of this reality’s Sam Winchester. _May I fly with you, Balthazar? I do not start at my job until next Wednesday, and I fear I am woefully behind on human customs._

 _That’s what you get for waiting for ‘the right assignment’_ , Balthazar teases. _Come on, little brother. I know the perfect place._

* * *

When Dean asks Castiel, “Where’ve you been?” when he finally comes back into the parlour the following Tuesday, he doesn’t expect the answer that Castiel gives.

“Las Vegas. It was most – enlightening.”

“I’ll bet,” says Dean, taken aback. “Really? I mean, how’d you get there?”

“My brother took me in order to ‘remove the stick from my ass’,” Castiel tells him, mouth twisting a little at the corner.

“The same brother who came and picked you up that time?” asks Dean, sceptical. “’Cos he really didn’t look like the type.”

“No, not the same brother. Zachariah and Balthazar are very – different individuals.”

Dean blinks and then laughs, shakes his head. “Shit, man, do crazy names run in the family?”

“You would have to ask our Father about that,” says Castiel.

“Seems like a bit of a deadbeat, if you ask me,” says Dean.

“He is not a deadbeat. He is my _Father._ ”

Dean looks a little startled, but it is the first time Castiel has shown anything other than placid calm or confusion in his presence, so he most likely wasn’t expecting the quiet blaze that marks out Castiel’s anger. Even Balthazar, who has always been one for teasing, is wary of Castiel’s anger.

“Hey, it’s cool,” says Dean, after a moment. “He’s still your dad. I get it, okay?”

“Okay,” says Castiel, eyes narrowed.

“I guess this makes us even, huh.”

“I assume you are referring to the incident that involved your mother.”

“Yeah,” says Dean. “Don’t worry about it, okay? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then how does this make us ‘even’?”

Dean pulls a face. “I dunno, man. Now that I think about it, I guess it doesn’t make much sense.”

“A number of things are failing to make sense at the present time,” says Castiel. “May I sit down?”

Dean waves a hand at the empty parlour. “Do I look busy?”

“I do not have many people to talk to,” Castiel confesses, taking a seat near the counter. He positions himself so that he’s facing Dean, with his back to the doors.

“Yeah, I bet,” says Dean. He holds his hands up in surrender when Castiel narrows his eyes at him.

“My sister told me to figure out something I already know,” Castiel tells him. “I do not understand why.”

“Don’t look at me,” Dean replies. “I’m hardly the ideal model when it comes to sibling relationships.”

“You love your brother very much,” Castiel protests.

Dean’s face closes off. “I thought I told you to stay out of my head.”

“I found out about your brother before you told me that,” says Castiel. He pitches his voice down, clasps his hands loosely together on his knees. “I apologise. That was inappropriate of me.”

“Damn right it was,” says Dean.

“I am sorry, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head, stalks away a few metres. He comes back, closer than before. “I, uh. Okay. I accept. And yeah, I do – I do love Sammy. But that won’t change the fact that he’s god-knows-where doing who-knows-what with all the wrong kinds of people.”

“It will be okay,” says Castiel, because Sam is in the Word. He can’t be dead.

“The floor could do with another sweep, if you’re up for it,” says Dean, averting his gaze.

* * *

 _I would like to find Sam Winchester_ , Castiel tells Balthazar, in the early hours of the next morning. The sky is ash-lavender, a hesitant kind of light painting vague stripes out across the flat plains that surround Lawrence.

 _Have at it_ , says Balthazar. _Upstairs is too busy arguing to notice you’ve moved anywhere._

_Why would they be paying attention to my movements?_

_Who knows,_ says Balthazar. _But be careful, Cassie. I don’t think you’ll be alone down here for much longer._   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi at pagalini.tumblr.com! =)


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel does not find Sam Winchester. He is very nearly late to his first shift of work because of the utter _absence_ of Sam Winchester.

            It is not as if Sam has gone into hiding. It is as if Sam has never existed, has never breathed the air or walked the ground. He is a void, hidden even from angels.

            Sam Winchester should not know about how to shield from angels. Considering this reality’s history, he should not even know that angels exist. This is not necessarily an indicator that he knows of angels, as the sigils could have been inflicted on him by another without his knowledge, but – it is a worry.

“Whoa, I didn’t even see you come in,” says Ash, when Castiel steps out of the employee restroom in the uniform he found hanging on the back of a chair in the staffroom. “When’d you get here?”

“Just now,” says Castiel. He can still taste the crisp bite of ozone on the vessel’s tongue. “What do you think of the weather?” he asks, because that is something he has seen humans do.

“It’s Kansas in summer,” says Ash, pulling a face. “What do you think?”

            Castiel thinks that he needs to learn more about the intricacies of human interaction before he can hope to communicate with Ash, but he at least knows enough to recognise that saying that aloud would be inappropriate.

            Sam Winchester is shielded from angels.

_There is something happening here that we do not understand, Balthazar._

_No kidding_ , is the immediate response. _I’ll have a little poke around. Stay safe, Cassie._

* * *

            Castiel’s responsibilities at the 7/11 involve restocking, pulling forwards and cashier duties. It is more complicated than the opinions of several of his customers seem to believe but well within his own capabilities. The repetitive nature of the work was punctuated by long periods where they had no customers at all. Ash sits down in a worn office chair during these times and he would tells Castiel that he can sit on the counter, but Castiel politely declines up until Ash says, “Geez, man, just sit down. You’ll hurt your feet. You’re only human.”

            Castiel sits. It is not unpleasant, but not pleasant, either. He is an angel. He does not need to sit. But he does not want to be discovered, either.

            It becomes pleasant when he notes that by looking to his right he can see Mary and Dean at work. They have a couple of families seated at the moment, and Dean is playing with a little girl. The whole building is bright with happy souls.

_Cassie, did you know that Sam Winchester is shielded from angels?_

_Yes_ , Castiel replies. _Has your ‘poking around’ yielded any results?_

 _I got a warning from Uriel_ , says Balthazar.

_A warning?_

_Shut-up-or-die. Pretty suspicious, right?_

“Customer.”

            Castiel gets off the counter and stands behind the till.

_Has there been any further news about my Orders?_

_Wouldn’t they come to you about it?_

_I don’t know. If everything you’ve told me is true, then this situation is unprecedented. I am only a foot soldier, Balthazar. It would not be unusual to be forgotten in the wider scope of what is happening._

_What would you do if you were forgotten?_

_I would stay here_ , says Castiel. _I would like to know Dean, if I can. He has a good soul._

_Are you breaking up with me, Cassie?_

_You are as ridiculous as ever_ , says Castiel, as he rings through a packet of nicotine gum.

_That’s a relief. I was getting all flustered._

            The customer leaves and Ash gestures for Castiel to get back on the counter. He does, and immediately swings his eyes around to fix on Dean.

_Cassie?_

_Yes, Balthazar?_

_Just – be careful. Life wouldn’t be the same without your stupid face._

* * *

            It takes a week for Dean to find out that Castiel hasn’t been staying with Sarah. She comes in around three for her favourite – the honeycomb on plain vanilla – and when he thanks her for letting Castiel stay while he gets back on his feet, she just looks puzzled and says that the guy he told her about never showed up.

            Dean’s across the road and in the 7/11 before he can even remember to take off his frilly pink apron.

“Hey, Dean,” says Ash, waving from behind the register. “How’s it going?”

“Where’s Castiel?”

“Hello, Dean.”

            Castiel is standing a couple of metres away with a stack of cat food cans balanced in his arms. He stares at Dean while he speaks and his mouth might has well have been ironed into a straight line, but Dean still feels like the guy’s happy to see him.

“Don’t ‘hello’ me, you jackass. Why ain’t you been staying with Sarah? Where you sleeping, man? Tell me it’s not with your brother.”

“It’s not with my brother,” says Castiel, blinking. He takes on a very vague expression of surprise. “You are concerned?”

“You’ve got a job now, okay?” says Dean. “You gotta be responsible. Where are you sleeping?”

“I haven’t.”

“Haven’t what?”

“I haven’t been sleeping.”

“Oh, fucking _hell_. You’re such a goddamn moron, man. You’re gonna screw yourself over. I mean, Ash’ll only take so much, right?”

“I dunno, Dean. He’s been fine,” says Ash. He holds up his hands placatingly. “I mean, if he’s been sleeping rough then that sucks, but if that’s true I’m kinda impressed. What?” he exclaims, when Dean pulls a face at him. “I wouldn’t look that good if I was sleeping rough, man.”

“I didn’t want to impose,” says Castiel. “Sarah does have a business to run.”

“You’ve got a wage now. It wouldn’t be long before you can get a place of your own.”

“I don’t know if I want a place of my own.”

“Why not?”

“Guys, can this wait until later? You’re both supposed to be working.”

“It’s quiet period,” says Dean, waving a hand dismissively. “So. Why don’t you want a place of your own? That brother a yours say something?”

“No. I’m just not sure how long I will be here.”

            Dean narrows his eyes. “You lying to me?”

“No.”

_Trouble in paradise?_

_Balthazar, please. Dean is distressed._

“What is it?”

“Excuse me?”

“You zoned out for a sec there. You okay?”

            Castiel is startled at the extent to which Dean is agitated. “I am fully functional,” he says.

“Yeah, but are you okay?”

            Castiel doesn’t really know how to reply to that. “—Yes.”

_Uriel’s gonna be swinging by to take a look at the Man himself. Just a heads up._

_When?_

_An hour or so. And before you ask, no, I don’t know what he plans on doing. I don’t understand why you’ve not been recalled, though. If Dean was a false alarm then that’s a good thing, right? No apocalypse is best apocalypse._

_It was Ordained_ , says Castiel. _Has the Word ever been wrong before?_

 _Well, no_ —

 _There is your answer_. _Now, excuse me. Dean is starting to become suspicious._

“You sure you’re okay?” asks Dean, right on cue.

“Absolutely certain,” says Castiel. “I am sorry, Dean, but I am at work. If you are this concerned then I will at least consider finding somewhere to stay.”

“Oh. Uh, good. You’d better,” says Dean, jabbing a finger at him. “Don’t work him too hard, Ash.”

“Fuck off, Dean.”

* * *

            Castiel doesn’t find somewhere to stay, because Uriel arrives before the end of his shift. It’s been more than a thousand years since Uriel walked the earth and through Castiel’s eyes his true form glares out through the seams of his new vessel like the corona of the sun in full eclipse. He is out of practise, it seems.

            The shop is not empty and Ash is present, so Castiel can’t leave. The shelf that goes along the front window becomes very well stocked, though. He’s uneasy with the situation but ready to deal with it until he senses Uriel unfurling his grace. Uriel is higher-ranking and probably under Orders, but Dean is _human_. Castiel drops the cans of tuna he was stacking and stands stricken, clenching and unclenching his fists.

            Mary Winchester screams, and Castiel makes his choice. It is the work of a millisecond to move to the ice cream parlour, his wings not even fully extended in the time it takes. He lands with his sword out and his back pressed tight against Mary’s body, and catches Uriel’s blade on his own. He throws his weight forwards and pushes Uriel away from him. Mary scrambles backwards and ducks behind the counter.

            There is a loud report, and he sees a bloom of scarlet on the white shirt of Uriel’s vessel. Dean is standing behind the counter with a gun easy in his hands. His face is hard and eyes furious. “What the fuck is going on.”

“Uriel is attempting to kill your mother,” says Castiel.

“I got that part, thanks.”

“I have Orders, Castiel,” interrupts Uriel. His grace is showing through the skin of his vessel, pouring out through his eyes and mouth. Castiel readjusts his grip on his sword and readies himself. “Get out of the way.”

“Dean Winchester must be saved,” he says. “In what world does that equate to the murder of his mother?”

“The Man must first be damned in order to be saved,” says Uriel. “His mother should not be alive. Get out of my way, _foot soldier_.”

“This will solve nothing,” says Castiel.

“I am protecting the Word.”

“I will not let harm come to Dean Winchester or his family.”

“Then I will kill you.”

            Castiel spreads his wings, though it is a pithy span compared to Uriel’s. Perhaps a little of Dean’s bravado has eaten into him, because he smiles. “You can try.”

            There’s a lingering moment where they square off in silence, wings spread in the between-space. Castiel is very conscious of the fact that Dean has yet to leave. He daren’t speak to him. He has seen Uriel fighting. Even the slightest distraction will mean death.

 _Cassie? Cassie, what on Our Father’s fucking earth are you_ doing _?_

_Uriel was going to kill Dean’s mother._

_Did he have Orders?_

_Yes._

            There’s a beat of astonished silence from Balthazar. _You do realise that going against Orders is tantamount to treason._

_Of course. I am no fool._

_That’s debatably, frankly._

_I am not blind,_ says Castiel, pausing as a tremor passes through Uriel’s left wing. _He says he is acting under Order, but I do not know if this is true._

_But it’s Uriel._

_He threatened you over the whereabouts of Sam Winchester. Sam was shielded from angels before Dean was supposed to be saved and the Word was shown corrupted. Ergo Uriel knows something._

_And where did you get that from, exactly?_

_Uriel must know something_ , Castiel repeats. _My guess is that he knew the Word was wrong before it happened, and tried to get it on track by harming Dean’s brother._

_Why doesn’t he just go for Dean?_

_Dean cares more about others than he does himself,_ says Castiel. There’s a gleam of light in Uriel’s hand as he unfolds his sword into reality.This is it. _Don’t tell anyone what you know_ , he tells Balthazar, as he braces himself. _Stay alive, brother._

            Uriel raises his sword, and that’s when Mary Winchester slams her hand down on a banishing sigil and burns them both out of reality.

* * *

            He’s still in eagle face when Uriel finds him, and is able to meet his descending sword with his own. Uriel is screaming, his grace incandescent with rage, and it’s all Castiel can do to stay alive. Not even that, if Uriel’s focus remains uninterrupted. Castiel’s limbs shake every time their swords clash.

            Uriel has brought great plagues upon the Earth at their Father’s command, has walked in hellfire and come out unscathed. He has killed pharaohs and kings and queens and innocents. He is ageless and angry and Castiel is going to die. Castiel is going to die, and then Uriel will kill Mary, and whatever corruption has sickened Heaven’s angels will never be brought to light. Or perhaps not. He thinks of the banishing sigil she drew – that she knew how to draw. Of Sam’s shielding. Mary knows more than she had let on. Certainly she knows more than Dean.

            Uriel’s sword passes close to his right wing, and when Castiel goes to block the next stroke of his sword he misses and topples sideways. Uriel hadn’t missed, as it turns out, and Castiel is left spinning end over end. He punches out of the between-space so fast that his vessel’s eardrums burst under the thunderous sound of a sonic boom and continues to fall, grace trailing out behind him in a useless spray of light.

            Uriel does not follow, and that is all Castiel can be thankful for as he hits the treeline and blacks out.

* * *

            One of Mary’s earliest memories is watching her Grandpapa wring a rabbit’s neck. Those big hands that cupped her head and put her hair in plaits for Sunday service snuffed the life out it in moments, and she watched and when he was done she asked if she could try. She’s killed more than rabbits, in the time since then, and she’s seen death. Oh, she’s seen more than enough of it (will never forget the stench of burning flesh, John’s bulging eyes, the slide of bubbling skin from the bones of his face). She’s not going to let it take her boy, not even if it’s an angel acting under the Word of God. Especially not, really, because she’s seen angels. She knows they ain’t better than nobody else. They’re just demons up to their eyeballs in bureaucracy instead of guts.

            She knows this because an angel tried to kill Sam.

“I will not let harm come to Dean Winchester or his family,” says Castiel.

            There’s not much time. She grabs a plastic fork from the pot under the counter, snaps it in her teeth, and stabs herself in the arm. Dean’s a good boy. He knows not to question her. He doesn’t know it through discipline, either. He just knows one simple fact – and that’s Mary Winchester is the best hunter there is, damn it, and she won’t ever go down without one helluva a fight.

            It’s been years since she’s even thought of angels, but she draws the banishing sigil with a steady hand. When she presses it she grabs Dean by the collar of his shirt and pulls him down behind the counter. When the light clears, both men are gone. 

“Fuck, mom, what did you _do?_ ”

“Dean Winchester, don’t you dare dirty your mouth like that around your mother.”

            He has enough sense to look embarrassed. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Pack a bag and meet me by the car. You able to draw that if they show up again? It has to be done in blood.”

“I got it. You want a bag too?”

“We’ll share one. Scram, quick.”

            Mary goes into the cupboard, the locked one that Dean had got the gun from. She comes out with rock salt rounds, a spare pistol, and a lighter. She stuffs them all into the zip-up pockets of the oversized coat she grabs from the stockroom and then pulls it on over her shoulders. There’s a label on the inside collar but it’s been washed clean of any markings. The shoulders fit to her, butter-soft and familiar. When she heads out the backdoor she’s still wearing her apron.

            Dean is waiting for her. He has a duffel slung over one shoulder, and he’s holding the strap tightly. She gentles a bit when she sees it, and reaches up to tousle his hair before grabbing the keys from his other hand. He pulls a face and ducks away, and god, he’s still just her boy. He’s a man now but he’ll always be her boy. “We taking the Impala?”

“God, no,” she says, walking straight past it over to her Prius. “Only if you want the gas charge taken out your wages.”

            Even without looking around she can picture his pout. He’s still wearing it when he gets into the passenger seat, though it softens by the time she’s pulling out of the car park. He glances back over his shoulder at the Impala.

“She’ll keep until you get back,” says Mary. “The perks of owning the parking lot.”

            Dean settles back in his seat. After a minute or so his hand twitches towards the CDs lining the pocket inside the door, and Mary smacks his knee. “There’s rules bout that sort of thing, boy,” she says, with an overdone serious look. “Pass me Annie Lennox.”

            Dean looks pained as he passes it over. Mary smiles at him, nice and wide, and turns the volume up near maximum as she takes the turning for the interstate.

“So,” she says, as they leave town and the sky opens up onto the flat Kansas plains. “There are some things you need to know.”

* * *

            Sam doesn’t look like a recovering drug addict. He’s broad, broader than Dean remembers, and his face is full and tanned. His apartment is on the ground floor and the window is cracked open enough that Dean can hear bugs outside. The light that washes in is yellow, picking out the cleanliness of the thin carpet.

            He doesn’t look surprised to see them. He takes Dean’s bag from him without saying a word, and locks the door as soon as they’re through.

“You gonna say anything,” says Dean, when Sam takes a seat on the arm of his beige couch with his back towards them. Sam shrugs.

“Were you ever gonna tell me Ruby was a demon?”

“Play nice,” says Mary, smacking him on the shoulder. “You boys want a drink?”

            Sam shakes his head and Dean doesn’t reply. Mary rolls her eyes and goes to the kitchen anyway, shutting the door pointedly behind her.

            Uncertainty stiffens the air between Dean and Sam. His memory of him gagging on his own vomit hangs over the real Sam, superimposed. He remembers the stink of Sam, the fevered shudder of his limbs, the sweat gathering on him like an overtaxed racehorse. “You look good,” Dean says, because it’s true.

            Sam lifts a shoulder, lowers it again. “Yeah. It’s been a while.”

“Mom told me some stuff.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“Not just about Ruby. Look, man, will you just – talk to me? Since when were angels a thing? Since when were there good guys who aren’t even good guys and what the fuck did you do to piss them off?”

“DEAN WINCHESTER,” comes Mary’s voice, surprisingly loud.

“What the hecky-doo did you do to pee them off,” Dean amends, with the straightest face he can muster. Sam turns his head to look at him, and he’s grinning. The bastard. “Poo you,” says Dean.

            Sam raises an eyebrow. “Poo you too, jerk.”

“Chick dog.”

            Sam’s mouth eases into a more natural expression, and Dean knows they’re cool. For now, anyway. He’s still got a whole bunch of questions, and who knows where they’ll be standing once he’s done. “So, you gonna tell me why angels are after your ass.”

“Didn’t say,” says Sam, shrugging. “Guy’s name was Zachariah, if that rings a bell.”

“It sure as heck does.”

            Sam looks up, sharp. “When’d you see him?”

“Came in for Cas – Castiel, this guy. He’s. He’s an angel.”

“You didn’t know, huh? The sneaky ones are the worst,” says Sam, and something in the way he looks down at his hands screams Ruby all over.

“No, he’s. He ain’t bad.”

“You know that for sure?”

“He saved mom,” says Dean, spreading his hands out hopelessly. “I don’t know, man. He seemed all right. He was tryna save mom.”

“Could be a cover.”

“Nah, guy was too bad at everything. You shoulda seen him, Sammy. The most useless guy I’ve ever met. Couldn’t have depended on him to tie his own shoelaces.”

“He’s probably never had shoelaces before,” says Sam. “I mean, his name doesn’t ping anything and I sure as heck read up about angels after what happened.”

“So you saying he’s not a bigshot?”

“You met him first, right? They don’t know you, so the way I see it is they had two options. One, impress you by sending, I dunno, Michael or Gabriel or someone even you’d recognise. Two, send someone they wouldn’t miss if something happened.”

“They went with two, huh.”

“They probably thought that I would have told you and we’d have figured out how to hurt them by now.”

            Dean narrowed his eyes. “We haven’t?”

“Bomb-proof, near as I can tell,” says Sam. “

“Then where’d mom learn the light trick thing from?”

“Learn the what?”

            Mary comes back in, and leans up against the doorframe. Both her boys turn to look at her. She takes a measured sip from the glass of water she’s holding in one hand before speaking. “It’s a banishing sigil, you dingus.”

            Sam whips the rest of his body around and leans forwards. Kid’s practically vibrating. “Where’d you learn a banishing sigil?”

“Same as I got this from,” she says, and produces a sword from the inside of her jacket. It’s short, more like a silver stake than anything, and it’s a dead ringer for the swords that Castiel and Uriel had been fighting with.

“And where is that, exactly,” says Dean. “You been keeping stuff from us?”

“I been keeping you two safe,” she snorts. “Don’t you take that tone with me, boy.”

“I’m just trying to take it all in,” says Dean, shaking his head. “Can you just – stop with the mystic cr – uff. Stuff.”

   “That boy, Castiel? I know him.”

“He sure as heck didn’t know you.”

“Not yet he don’t,” says Mary. “It was confusing as all Hell at the time, but now that it’s coming around I’m understanding.”

            Dean threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. “Understanding _what?_ ”

“Angels are time travellers,” says Mary. “And they want you more than Bobby wants the honeycomb on his single scoop cherry.”

            Dean blinks, taken aback. “Yeah, I, uh. I don’t get that part. I’m nothing special.”

“That’s exactly the point,” says Mary. “All the angels I’ve met have talked about putting things right. Seems to me they all think that I should be a dead woman.”

“What does that have to do with putting things right? Sh – eet ain’t cool.”

“Angels work on the Word of God, right,” cuts in Sam. “So. Is this what happens when the Word is wrong?”

“Say again,” says Dean.

“They want mom dead, Dean. They keep saying she shouldn’t be alive. What does that sound like to you?”

“Like some sick sons of boogers.”

“You aren’t wrong,” says Mary, straightening up and coming to stand directly in front of them. The angel sword is a shard of light in her small hand. “But we could do with some confirmation. Dean. You trust Castiel?”

“As much as I can when he’s some suped-up monster,” says Dean. “I think there’s more than he’s telling.”

“Me too. That’s why I want you to pray to him.”

“ _What?_ Mom, I’m no God’s man.”

“No, pray to Castiel. He’ll hear you, so long as you say his name.”

            Dean rolls his eyes and slumps back. He brings his hands together, looking very put-upon, and closes his eyes. “Can Castiel get his lying gankable behind down here where I can see it, oh Lord amen whatever.”

“Hello, Dean,” says Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lapse! I suffered from some pretty intense stress this term and also changed degree programs (so much red tape oh my goodness), but it should be pretty plain sailing from here on out with regards to updating. I hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> I'm pagalini over on tumblr too, and I mostly post fandom things, fanart and feminism c:

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at pagalini.tumblr.com if you want to say hi! c: I'm pretty multifandom and I frequently post fanart!


End file.
